Cuba blue

by Robert W. Walker

  However, as her car engine kicked over, he drove by and waved, not slowing. She waved back, before seeing a strange note on her passenger seat. How did it get into her locked car? Had someone slipped it through a crack in the window? She checked. Not so much as a slit in any of the four windows. So how had it gotten here, and should she read it here and now on this darkened street where the shadows cut clear to China? She swallowed and glanced around, checking the back seat as she did so. She was alone. Utterly and completely alone. Hilito’s taillights long gone.

  The street stood deserted and silent save for music spilling out through the threshold of a nearby bar with a buzzing neon sign spelling out Bebida Calienta. She knew it to be a local hangout for unsavory types and street snitches, even as it thrived near the stationhouse. A number of places reputed to be untouchable criminal dens lined the narrow streets of Old Havana. Under the best of conditions, she didn’t care for this side street, but she felt confident no one would bother a woman driving a police-issue vehicle and packing a Walther PPK 380. This is ridiculous! Read the note now, here, or take it into the station to read it. Sitting here isn’t helping. She opted to read it. Carefully unfolding the unusually thick paper that spoke of expensive stationery, she tilted it into the light from the cafe and read…

  Come home soon! I have a present for you. Found it in your favorite color- something for my special girl to model. I’ll wait up! — Montoya

  Aha, Montoya. Must’ve found a moment…came down to fetch me only to learn I was gone. Must’ve smooth-talked the vehicle dispatcher into letting him drop the note inside.

  She re-read the note and tossed it back on the seat. Should’ve recognized the paper he uses, extravagant man! No reason to get scared. Must be catching Benilo’s paranoia. She took a deep breath that ended with a yawn. As she drove off, she thought of her last duty tonight-the police report. Too tired to think straight, she hoped what she’d filled in for the colonel would suffice. But even so much as a spelling error or simple mistake of grammar and Gutierrez’d be on her. Yeah, he’d just love that.

  She rolled her windows down and a gust of wind blew Montoya’s note onto her lap. A sign? “Home, Montoya, bed, sleep…” she softly chanted into the surrounding darkness. Another good reason to have polished off the paperwork tonight; tomorrow she might well be sleeping in a bit, running behind.

  Qui kept two apartments, one in the Old City, the other at her father’s bed and breakfast. She used the little flat, her government-issue residence, in Old Havana to crash whenever it grew so late she could not see to drive out to Miramar.

  Tonight, despite the lateness of the hour and a mix of adrenaline and fatigue filling her mind and body, she welcomed the drive, which always calmed her. At the moment, her deeper need was to be close to those she loved, her father and Montoya. She imagined the two men in jovial banter, drinking rum, and playing dominoes or chess to pass the time until her arrival.

  Although her father wanted her to marry and give him grandchildren-a frequently repeated request-he knew that she did not love Montoya unreservedly. She and Montoya were good friends, intimate friends, and while Estaban wanted their relationship to go to another level, she remained unsure. His self-serving expectation was that she, his chosen one, would eventually come around to his thinking, to do as he wanted; he was after all a successful doctor, accustomed to telling people what was in their best interests. In his mind, they were already married, the actual ceremony a mere formality…a matter of time; in fact, he already bossed her about, making demands-none of which sat well with Quiana.

  While not quite perfect, for Estaban the situation was more than acceptable. When asked by others about their setting a date, he’d smile tolerantly and reply, “Soon…soon. These things take time,” and smile tolerantly.

  Qui, on the other hand, felt uneasy at such a question, because for her, their relationship provided more friendship rather than the passionate partnership for which she had always longed. Perhaps it was a foolish romantic fantasy; however, foolish and romantic is exactly how she believed a person in love should feel. At twenty-nine-years old, she’d had her share of affairs and relationships, but if she were honest with herself, she’d never tasted true love. In her mind-love without judgment, love without restraint, love without chains-either existed or failed to flourish. She wanted the kind of love poets spoke of, and all things beneath that protective, nourishing umbrella. At the end of the day, she remained unsure that what she and Montoya had was enough to last a lifetime.

  With the dark Cuban night closing around her like a silk shawl, she drove toward Miramar, following her favorite route paralleling the coast. As the Peugeot wound along, the sea air swirled in, lifting her hair and dissipating the foul mixture of chemicals, fish, and death that’d permeated and clung to hair, skin, and clothing. Driving like this filled her with a quiet contentment, a mystical grace painted by a sapphire sea, an indigo sky, and a hide-and-seek moon that played among deep lavender clouds. The hypnotic sound of the waves, constant and reassuring, calmed and soothed her mind and body.

  When she pulled into the parking area, she saw Montoya’s immaculate two-tone baby-blue and white Ford Fairlane. She climbed from her car, her body screaming for a shower and a set of cool sheets. She found the two men just as she’d imagined earlier. Still on a high, she began telling them of her day and the case that Gutierrez had assigned her. As she spoke, her father listened with the solemnity that she’d come to expect whenever the topic turned to police matters. At the same time, Montoya became increasingly agitated, pacing and finally bursting out in a flood of words, “Qui, I think I might know those people. They are the missing doctors-”

  “Missing doctors?”

  “It’s all over the medical community; three doctors from the conference missed their plane, and they’re making a big deal of it.”

  “What conference, what doctors, Estaban? What’re you talking about?”

  “Two officials came to question me at the clinic, because one of the doctors, a Dr. Beisiegel, spent an afternoon at the clinic last week. She was part of a big medical conference that just ended.”

  “What two officials?”

  “From one of the embassies! The American Interest Section even, a security guy named Zayas, I think was his name. Who knows? Who cares?”

  One of the things that annoyed her about Estaban was his apathy, which went hand-in-hand with a kind of smug complacency. It was at odds with Montoya’s professional bearing, competence, and position. If men like him, in leadership roles, failed to give a damn, then what hope had Cuba of progressing?

  “If it is a missing persons case,” she ventured, “why didn’t the police question you? Why embassy people? And who’s this security guy with the American Interest Section?” She recalled seeing someone Pena called “Zayas” this morning at the stationhouse, the guy Pena’d given the brush off. Was it the same man Quiana wondered. Pena might break the case before her, she suddenly feared. “Tell me exactly who questioned you? And come to think of it, if you think this could be my murdered victims as you say, then you can help by coming down to Arturo Benilo’s morgue-”

  “Me…morgue? I hate morgues.”

  “But you’re a doctor!”

  “Who only deals with the living! I was never any good with corpses, not even in medical school.”

  “But you’re in a position to help, to identify-”

  “Don’t you understand, Qui, I don’t want to be involved, especially if it turns out to be the foreign doctors. It’s not good politically for a man in my position to…to attract attention.”

  “Damn you, Estaban, it’s the right thing to do. Help me out here!” Fear of Pena’s possibly getting her case made her edgier than usual-fueling her anger at Esteban’s indifference.

  Tiring of the heated exchange, Tomaso cleared his throat, and with a flourish of his hand, suggested, “Estaban, my boy, go look at the body. It may not even be the same woman, and that will end your involvement. Be done
with it…”

  “I’ll think about it,” Montoya spoke to Tomaso now while eyeing Qui, “but your daughter, she should think long and hard about what’s best for her and me, because-”

  Qui put a hand up to him, the universal gesture of ‘don’t go there’ and he stopped short. From between thinned lips, she pleaded, “Just tell me what you know of this lady doctor from Canada.”

  “Am I being interrogated?”

  “Just help me out here. Please.”

  “So far as I know, the three missing are all doctors. Here for the International Virology Conference.”

  “The International Virology Conference?”

  Tomaso busied himself by putting away his chess set, ears alert, sizing up Montoya’s ability to handle Qui.

  Montoya continued between sips of rum. “I spoke to them earlier this week at the conference. Dr. Beisiegel came to the clinic.”

  “Why?”

  “To see how we deliver HIV-AIDS healthcare at the neighborhood level. She asked some very pointed questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “About our AIDS research, specifically the HIV vaccine, and our work with monolaurin.”

  “Mono-what?”

  “Monolaurin, a drug that our bodies produce when we ingest coconut oil. Nowadays, we routinely manufacture it in the lab.”

  “To treat HIV?”

  “For treating a variety of viruses, including HIV.”

  “OK, so tell me more about the Canadian doctor.”

  Montoya looked uneasy. Shaking his head, he replied, “She was just another researcher for a Canadian pharmaceutical company interested in our success with monolaurin and the vaccine.”

  “What about the two Americans? Were they with her at the time?”

  “No. Not at the clinic.”

  “Montoya, is there nothing more you can tell me about this doctor?”

  “She was a Canadian researcher. That’s all I know.”

  Qui reached down and removed her shoes. Tomaso handed her a glass of rum. She looked at it with distaste, setting it down and saying, “Thanks anyway, Papa.” The last thing she needed was alcohol.

  “Qui, this whole thing is horrible!” Then with a sideways glance at her father, Montoya stood, paced, and went on a non-stop tirade. “You must give this over to someone else! You cannot hope to uncover the truth of their deaths-this is your first major case, and as much as I love you, you’re hardly experienced enough to get to the-”

  “Hey, Montoya, calm down,” she interrupted, but he only continued, a locomotive out of control.

  “-cause of these brutal murders. They’re foreigners, well-connected doctors from America and Canada if indeed she is the same one I met! Nothing good can come of this. Murdered? Mother of God! This is bad, Qui. Get rid of it! For all of us who love you, give this case to someone else!”

  “Easy Estaban!”

  “This is a disaster for Cuba. Qui, drop it, you have to drop it as fast as possible!”

  “Hey, calm down! I have help! Doctor Arturo Benilo has been assigned, and who can ask for better?”

  At this, she noticed a look her father shot her, a look she could not identify. Qui felt certain he’d most certainly have something to say about her case, because everything in her life seemed open to comment, even interference, from Tomaso Manuel Aguilera, a man used to getting his own way.

  “Look, I want you both to understand something,” she said in a firm voice. “It’s my case and will remain my case until Gutierrez re-assigns it. Got it!”

  “But, Qui, he won’t, don’t you see?” Montoya stammered. “He’s happy to watch you fail and-”

  “Who says I will fail?” Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “I need your support on this, Estaban. If we were married, is this how you’d treat me? Undermining me?”

  “If we were married, you wouldn’t be a cop. You’d have no need of work. You could just learn to cook and-”

  “And be a proper married woman?”

  “-and take care of our children and-”

  “Enough of this,” said Tomaso. “We’re all tired, and this is not the time to repeat old arguments.”

  Qui replied, “I got it. I got it already. You don’t either of you want me on the case, because you expect me to fail. You want me to drop the case, and I want you to drop this discussion,” she demanded. “Now I’m going to shower and to sleep.” She hugged her father as she passed by, “Goodnight, Papa. I’ll see you in the morning. Good-bye, Montoya.”

  Montoya shrugged at Tomaso, who advised, “She’s angry; give her a moment. Let her cool down.”

  Montoya, a look of defeat in his eyes, sat down and lifted his rum. The two men sat quietly, each lost in contemplation at the disturbing news Qui had brought home.

  His drink gone, Montoya stood and said, “Good night Tomaso.”

  Tomaso advised, “A warning, Montoya, she’s like her mother, spirited, easy to anger-like a scorpion. Best not provoke her any further.”

  Not a man to take advice, Montoya nodded and left in pursuit of Qui. Tomaso stared at his retreating figure, a gift-wrapped package now in Estaban’s hands. The older man shook his head, thinking that once again the doctor was assuming Qui could be distracted from her convictions with material things. Qui’s attention might be temporarily distracted; however, her loyalty and affection could not be bought. The younger man couldn’t be further from understanding her, so how would Montoya ever win her?

  In a moment, Estaban stood knocking at Qui’s door, the pretty package in hand. He caught her undressing, a sight he relished.

  “Baby, sweetheart, you should listen,” he began, holding the present behind his back. “A thing like this case of yours…just being involved as a secondary, could bring you harm.”

  “I’m primary investigator on this one.”

  “My God…but this will be a…a volcano with everyone getting burned. I just don’t want you to get hurt! That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Montoya, as lead investigator on the case, it’ll take an act of God or Gutierrez to remove me from it. So say no more.”

  “We can get Tomaso to make a few phone calls.”

  “No, damn it! You will not start this bullshit now, not again!”

  “We’re not talking simple murder! This is an international incident-three foreigners dying on Cuban soil while attending a medical conference? This can only make Cuba look bad. Fidel will be involved, and you’ll be the focus of everyone’s attention.”

  “I understand your concerns but-”

  “This is something the State should handle, not the police. Too many unknowns. Americans, that alone means trouble.”

  “Montoya, I asked you to drop it.” Her eyes flashed where she stood now in bra and panties.

  “You’re so gorgeous dressed like that.” He began to approach her when her angry eyes stopped him.

  “Come on, Qui, bodies tossed in the sea like trash?” He paused to enjoy the sight of her, then attempted to drive home his point. “This is a dangerous game, Qui! Whoever’s behind this isn’t gonna stop at a badge, a uniform, a Walther PPK, or a beautiful woman.”

  “Stop it or go home. I will not hear anymore of this!” She even more fiercely glared at him, fist clenched, teeth gnashing.

  “Damn it, Quiana, I am squarely on your side. I love you.”

  “Damn funny way of showing it.”

  “Here. I got this earlier. I wanted us to enjoy it. Together,” he handed the package to her.

  Grabbing it, she exclaimed, “Why do you do this? Give me presents when I am angry with you?”

  “I got it before all this started,” he protested. “Go shower and model it for me. I’ll go read a journal unless you want me to join you-wash your back maybe?” he cajoled.

  “Showering I can do for myself without anyone’s help. Right now, I need to be alone, period.” Grimacing, she stalked off to shower, taking the pale blue, beautifully wrapped box with her. Damn him to hell, she sourly thought.


  After several minutes under hot water and finishing with cool, her anger as well as the stench of death had vanished. Toweling her hair, she glanced with distaste at her choice of plainclothes detective wear amid her underwear in a heap on the floor. How many washings would it take to get the smell out, she wondered. The odors clinging to her couldn’t be pleasant for Estaban, or were they? He’d never made a single complaint.

  She reached for the package and undid the careful wrapping, wondering anew how Montoya afforded this sort of indulgence. She reached in and lifted out the most beautiful nightgown and negligee she’d ever seen. The gown, made of soft smooth blue satin, felt cool to the touch. She pulled it over her head, adjusted straps to fit, and gazed at her reflection. It seemed made for her alone, her nipples showing clearly, the fabric curving snugly over her breasts, just tight enough over her hips to outline her derriere. Too much sitting. Need to get more exercise. The high leg opening revealed plenty of skin. The delicate pattern along its edge drew the eye to the line of the leg. She smiled at her mirror image, enjoying this look, all of her earlier frustration morphing into something akin to a grudging acceptance of Montoya’s concerns, her displeasure buried, but not entirely vanished. Faintly patterned and nearly transparent, the sheer silk negligee caressed her skin-this final sensation burying the last vestiges of her annoyance. The thing must have cost a fortune. He knew she’d disapprove of his extravagance but love it all the same.

  Oh Montoya, if only my misgivings about us would dissolve as easily as my annoyance with you. She vowed that for the rest of the night, there would not be a single serious word between them. This would be a night he’d remember for a long, long time. She smiled as she turned off the light, extinguishing all thought of the outside world, to join him where he awaited her in bed.

  12

  Earlier, receiving dock, Benilo’s morgue